The Devil Went Down to Geneva
by Ekat
Summary: Adam Pierson, Watcher Trainee.  Rules?  We don't need no stinkin' rules


"In the history of [this] Academy no one has simultaneously cultivated so many forms of misconduct ****

THE DEVIL WENT DOWN TO GENEVA

By: Ekat

Rating: PG

Summary: Adam Pierson, Watcher Trainee. Rules? We Don't Need No Stinkin' Rules

Characters: M, OCs

Disclaimer: don't own them. Not making any money off this. This is in answer to the quote challenge: "In the history of [this] Academy no one has simultaneously cultivated so many forms of misconduct." The _Binding Chair_ by Kathryn Harrison

Thank you: Judith, for being a teacher and a friend. Rach for once again being the bestest beta reader and having a wonderful discussion on the difference between American and British Schools. Mecca for the virtual tapping on the shoulder and the "is it done yet?". And Michelle, sister, reader, supporter and for being the best person to argue titles with. I still say it scans wrong.

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From the outside looking in, St. Michael's looked like every other elitist, not to mention extremely expensive, private college in the world. It had large, well-manicured lawns that were *the* perfect shade of green. The shrubbery was sculpted to the point of being living works of art. There was even a well-tended (not to mention fully stocked) pond that could arguably be called a small lake. The four buildings that comprised the campus were reminiscent of the old Gothic revival styles that eighteenth century Europe had been so fond of.

Yes, to the rest of the world, St. Michael's was just another upscale institution of higher learning located thirty kilometers northeast of Geneva, Switzerland. And, in a sense, the rest of the world would be right. St. Michael's was home to the Academy, owned and operated by a secret organization known only as "The Watchers". It was to St. Michael's that the Watchers sent their new recruits to learn all the ins and outs of being a Watcher and the people they watched.

In 1983, one Ambrose Francis Penddicord was the Watcher in charge of St. Michael's. He was an austere man in his late fifties who had a love of order, Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, Masterpiece Theater, and single malt scotches from Islay. Penddicord had never married, fully believing that a person could only devote 100% of himself to one thing in life. He chose that one thing to be a career rather than a family. It was a decision he only regretted late at night and on the occasional gift-giving holiday.

Unbeknownst to Penddicord, most of the student population and the periodic instructor at the Academy referred to him as 'Dicky'. This tidbit of knowledge was a carefully guarded secret. The most sacred oath a Watcher could take was the one of non-interference. The most sacred oath a student could take was never to call the head Watcher 'Dicky' where there might be the chance he could overhear. In the entire time he had held the office, that oath had been kept.

As far as Ambrose Francis Penddicord was concerned, everything at St. Michael's ran like a well-oiled machine.

That is, until May 23, 1983.

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Reginald "Reg" Stillman was not the kind of man one expects to find in a secret organization whose primary focus is covert surveillance. As a thirty-two-year-old man of African descent, who stood at six feet, eight inches tall and tipped the scales at a nice round 280 pounds, most of it solid muscle he would have you know, Reg was not someone who blended well into a crowd. 

Not all Watchers are field agents however. In fact, many were researchers and historians. But a life long battle with dyslexia caused Reg to have a great dislike of the written word and the idea of being shut up for hours on end in a dusty library made him cringe. No, Reg would serve the Watchers to his dying day, but he would do it where he felt most comfortable, patrolling the grounds of St. Michael's with his five-year-old German Shepherd partner, Max.

Monday, May 23, 1983, found Reg assigned to the graveyard shift, which was fine by him. He preferred the overnights. He didn't really have to interact with people in the wee hours of the morning. It would be him, Max, and the night air. 

Reg found the shift to be standard and routine. At five minutes past midnight, he and Max shooed the last stragglers out of the library and sent them back to their rooms. Forty-five minutes later, they had patrolled the academic building and locked it up for the night. Following protocol, they proceeded to the administrations building and patrolled the hallways. Upon leaving the building, Reg radioed in to dispatch that four instructors were still in their offices. 

By one-thirty in the morning Reg and Max started their patrol of the grounds. They didn't have to patrol the dormitories. That was the responsibility of someone else. Neither man nor beast was terribly put out by it.

They walked the perimeter as only long-time partners could, in comfortable silence. Not that Max was much of a conversationalist, mind you, but there was still that comfort level that can only exist between two living creatures after long hours of exposure to each other. 

As the minute hand on Reg's watch hit two-thirty, Max's keen canine senses determined that all was not right at St. Michael's. He froze in his tracks, ears high and alert, a low growl emanating from deep within his chest. Unconsciously, Reg moved his high-powered assault riffle in front of him with his finger on the trigger, not realizing that as he did, he dropped Max's leash. 

Max, being the ever vigilant guard dog that he was, noticed that his lead was no longer being held taunt and leapt into some nearby bushes towards the source of the unusual scents and sounds he had detected. Cursing, Reg followed after, using Max's barks and the sounds of people screaming as a guide.

As he broke free of the greenery, Reg found himself on the southwest edge of the pond. Everywhere he looked, he saw remnants of an interrupted, late night pizza and swim party. Beach towels had been laid out on the edge of the water. Empty pizza boxes and a multitude of empty beer cans littered the once pristine lawns surrounding the pond.

This mental inventory of the scene took only a few seconds, as Reg's primary concern was locating Max and the source of the screaming he had heard. He found Max, for his part, carrying out his duty. He was reared up and leaning against a Volkswagen mini-bus, barking loudly at the occupants. 

Reg called for back-up before cautiously approaching the vehicle. Using his high-powered, not to mention fairly heavy, flashlight, he peered through the window of the VW to discover six twenty-something faces staring back at him. 

Reg allowed Max to keep the occupants of the vehicle inside until his back-up arrived. He looked at his watch and sighed. It was quarter to three in the morning. Dicky was not going to be a happy camper when he was woken up to be told about this evening's adventures.

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To the students who had been summoned to Director Penndicord's office, it was a dark and foreboding place. But to the Director himself, it was a warm and comfortable place to spend the hours. The walls were covered with floor to ceiling bookcases that boasted titles of rare and hard to find books. Strategically placed around the room were souvenirs and mementos of his time as a field agent. The floor was covered with a deep red oriental carpet that he suspected had from India.

In front of the two large windows that filled the north wall of the room, stood a large and impressive mahogany writing desk. Before the desk were two wingback chairs upholstered in red and gold damask. The primary source of light in the room was the table lamp that sat on the right-hand corner of the desk.

Director Penddicord sat reading Officer Stillman's incident report. Never in all his life had he been so outraged. Locals…non-Watchers on the grounds of St. Michael's. Never in his thirty-five years with the organization had he heard of such a thing happening.

He set aside the report and picked up a manila folder. Neatly written on the tab was the name Adam J. Pierson, the only person with ties to the Watchers that was among the group. He opened the file and began to read. By all accounts, Pierson was a first rate student, pulling high marks in all of his academic classes, most especially languages and histories. He had just barely passing marks in physical education and self-defense, but his marksmanship scores were positively dreadful. From his records, it appeared that Pierson would make a fine researcher when…if... he graduated.

Penddicord continued leafing through the file, looking for any reports of violations and/or infractions. The only thing he found was a mention that Pierson had been caught at two in the morning in the library, well after the building had been closed, doing research for a paper.

Unfortunately, this situation was not something he could just look the other way on, too many rules and regulations had been broken. Pierson had to be reprimanded. Examples must be set. Otherwise everyone would get it into his or her head that they could ignore the rules as well, and then nothing would be left but total chaos. No. Pierson must face the consequences of his actions.

Setting the file on Adam J. Pierson down, Penddicord sighed. He reached over and pushed the talk button on his intercom. "Mr. Stillman," he said, knowing that the security officer was standing in his secretary's office guarding the malefactor, "please escort Mr. Pierson in."

As he waited for his guest to join him, Penddicord looked at the engraved clock he received for thirty years of active service to the organization. The face read five o'clock. He sighed and looked out the window. The first few streaks of false dawn were making their way across the sky. It was way too early to have to deal with this, he thought to himself.

He picked Pierson's file back up so that it looked as though he were busy reading it when Pierson joined him. Penddicord felt that it looked better to make the offending student sit and wait for him and not the other way around. Helped to establish who was in charge.

There was a knock at the door just before it opened. He glanced up to see Officer Stillman holding the door open for Pierson. "Have a seat, Mr. Pierson," he said, indicating with his eyes to the chair across from him. "Thank you Mr. Stillman. If you would be so kind as to wait outside until we are finished?" Reg nodded and closed the door behind him.

Penddicord returned his gaze back to the file before him. Out of the corner of his eye he watched surreptitiously as Pierson sat down. Rather than taking the stiff formal seat like others who had been called before him, Pierson adopted a posture that could only be described as a "disinterested slouch". He rested his elbows on the arms of the wingback chair, folded his hands across his waist, and casually looked around the room, absorbing his surroundings. This casual disregard of propriety bothered Penddicord to his core.

Adam J. Pierson appeared to be the average graduate student. By appearance, he could have been anywhere from twenty to thirty-eight years of age. He had a thin build, the kind that any self-respecting mother would want to sit down and feed, that Penddicord suspected was actually a lot stronger than it looked. Pierson's face could only be described as classic in feature- strong jaw, prominent cheekbones, slightly large aquiline nose. He was pale in complexion, but not so pale as to look ill with his jet-black hair. But it was Pierson's eyes that intrigued him. Their golden-green depths were very alert, watchful. They were eyes that never missed even the smallest of details. They were eyes that held secrets. They were the eyes of a Watcher.

Penndicord straightened the papers he was holding and closed the file before turning his full attention to Pierson. "Right, then," he said watching the young man's reaction. Slowly, the golden-green orbs stopped their visual inventory of Penddicord's office and were lazily directed towards the man himself. Pierson had not said a word, but his body language spoke volumes. It said that he had better things to do than sit here. Too bad, Penddicord thought.

"Mr. Pierson, you are being charged with six counts of violating Academy rules. You seem to have blatantly ignored," he said picking up the incident report, "the 12:30 curfew, the no swimming rule, no unregistered vehicles on Academy grounds, parking in specially marked areas only, no littering, and the worst infraction of all… no unauthorized visitors on Academy grounds." He put the paper back down. " Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Pierson tilted his head in thought, pursed his lips and shook his head. Penddicord clasped his hands together and leaned forward on his desk. "I have been head Watcher here at St. Michael's for over fifteen years now and must confess that in the history of this Academy no one has simultaneously cultivated so many forms of misconduct. This institution, not to mention this organization, has been in existence longer than you have, Mr. Pierson." He couldn't help but notice the slight upward turn of Pierson's mouth or the amused twinkle that came to his eyes. It was as if he were trying to contain a joke that only he knew. It took all of Penddicord's self control not to reach across the desk and wipe the smirk off of the face opposite him. "And the rules," he continued, trying to pretend he hadn't noticed, "that have been instituted here have been designed to ensure not only your safety but the safety of all trainees here, as well as to protect the anonymity of the Watcher Organization.

"You have put me in a very awkward situation here, Pierson. Were you a full Watcher we would be well within our rights to have you executed. The Organization does not look favorably on those who play fast and loose with the rules." He watched, waiting for the usual panic he saw when a trainee was informed that he or she could be executed. But the reaction he got was not one that he expected. Not even a glimmer of fear swept through Pierson's eyes. If anything, the amusement in them grew, and with it, Penddicord felt his annoyance rise as well. He found himself having to hold tightly onto his emotional control as he continued.

"For the remainder of this term, you are under full house arrest. Everywhere you go for the next six weeks you will be accompanied by an armed escort. You so much as sneeze and someone will be there to wipe your nose. You use the 'loo and someone will be there to hand you paper. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week you will not be left alone. Just one more infraction, Pierson, and trainee or not, I will have you brought before the tribunal for judgement. Do I make myself clear?" 

Pierson closed his eyes and nodded once. When he opened them back up, he made eye contact with Penddicord. While his posture had not changed, what the Director saw in Pierson's eyes had. No longer were they filled with bemused laughter. Instead they had grown cold, calculating. Adam J. Pierson may look like a mild-mannered graduate student, but below the surface there was something more, something dangerous.

Penddicord refused to be intimidated by Pierson's gaze. Back when he was a field agent, he had once been confronted by his assignment, an evil being named Ivan Kasparkov. He would never forget the feral stare that Kasparkov directed towards him. Even though he was no longer assigned to the insane Immortal, he still kept tabs on him. He was now going by the name Evan Caspari and proving himself to be quite the talented mass murderer in Romania. No, Pierson may have a cold and hard look about him, but he would never be comparable to the old and evil Immortals.

The staring match between the two men lasted for a full minute and only ended when Pierson lowered his eyes, but the smirk on his lips returned. Penddicord was not sure if he should feel triumphant over this "victory" or not. He tried to mold his face into an unreadable mask. Whether or not he succeeded, Pierson gave no indication.

Keeping his eyes on Pierson, he reached over and pressed the talk button on the intercom system. "Mr. Stillman, Mr. Pierson is ready to leave now." The door opened almost immediately and the large security officer stepped inside. Penddicord shifted his gaze towards Reg. "Mr. Pierson has been placed under house arrest. Please escort him back to his room and make sure he is assigned a guard for the duration of the term." Reg nodded in understanding. 

As Pierson stood up, Penddicord looked back at him. "Just remember, Mr. Pierson. Just one misstep is all I need." Pierson looked down at him and gave him a bemused half-smile. Placing both hands in his jeans pockets, he turned and strode out of the room.

Penddicord watched Pierson leave his office, with Stillman following close behind. When the door had closed he leaned back in his chair and sighed. While he had dominated the conversation, he got the distinct feeling that he was not the one who had actually been in control of the meeting. Pierson, he concluded, was not someone to take for granted and the sooner he was out of St. Michael's and locked away in a dusty library in Paris the better.

He got up from his desk and went over to an elaborately carved credenza. He opened it up, removed and uncorked a bottle of twelve-year-old Bunnahabhain and poured himself a generous mouthful of the amber liquid. He replaced the cork before picking up the glass and downing the liquor in one swallow. "Well, I guess things could be worse," he said to himself, looking at his empty glass. "He could be an Immortal."

End


End file.
